


breaking him

by foundCarcosa



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Other, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-23 01:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2528795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short harsh Meresino fic in an AU where trans domme Meredith Stannard breaks men for a living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	breaking him

Men like him were a dime a dozen — and not just here in the underground, but in the starved and lean city as a whole. Men who donned natty suits in the morning, made sure the knot of their tie kept their head secured to their shoulders and the cuff links at their wrists kept their hands from wandering, dutifully drank their coffee and ate their doughnuts and slipped their sedentary-lifestyle bulk behind a plywood desk to make the Man his money.

Men like him were born to kneel.

He said the words _"I’m a preparatory-school administrator"_ as if that was supposed to impress her.

He didn’t bother hiding the fact that his hairline was receding and the lines were getting tight around his mouth and eyes.  
That _did_ impress her.

"Have you _ever_ been to a domme?” she asks in thinly-veiled disgust fifteen minutes later, after his floundering, blush-tinged answers to her direct questions began to grate.

"No," he responds, and she could have sworn his eyes blazed defiantly when he did.

That couldn’t be.  
Men like him didn’t _blaze._

—-

He has knots of tension in his shoulders, his lower back, his inner thighs.

He is disturbed enough by the sight of his own blood that his cock twitches, rises, swells.

He doesn’t like to be caressed, shies away from aftercare, and that amuses her.

She almost asks him his name.

—-

She can hear his teeth grinding when she curls a gloved hand in his sparse hair and _pulls._ Her knee nestles in the curve of his bare back, the pointed toe of her boot nudging at his crack.  
" _Impudent_ boy, aren’t you.”  
A purr, nothing more, but the consonants are just clipped enough that if he pays attention, if he worships her with all his senses, he’d know how she felt.

"I don’t care how you got here. I don’t care who you were when you walked up to the door.  
When you walked in, you became mine. That is all you are. _Mine._  
No name. No title. No silly _ego.”_

He jerks, once, as if to pull away. It is a game to him. He thinks her a novelty, a source of entertainment on a dull night when the bars are empty, and that, if nothing else, infuriates her.

She spits, watching the saliva run down his sloped nose. Behind his head, under the PVC and behind the snug gaff, she aches.  
"What are you?"

"Yours."

"Yours, _what?”_

—-

But he doesn’t call her Mistress, not once, not until the night she breaks, and gives in to the things she really wants to do -- not the play of normal well-lit nights, but the danger of smoky dungeons where no one spoke of the sins committed therein. Not until the night she grinds his jewels under her stiletto heel and lays his sallow skin open with a flaying knife and shoves her neglected cock down his throat.

Then… oh, _then._


End file.
